


The Cellist

by 4bambiray



Category: Michael Fassbender - Fandom
Genre: Deaf Character, Drama & Romance, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4bambiray/pseuds/4bambiray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cautious  musician's neighbor is Michael Fassbender.  She reluctantly builds a relationship with him.  Can she overcome what she views as shortcomings to allow him to love her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Days

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: This is my first fiction involving Michael Fassbender, I hope that you will enjoy it.
> 
> Beta’d by apres-moi-le-deluge-oui. Without her this would still be sitting on my computer.
> 
> I've also post this on : http://fassbenderfrustrationblog.tumblr.com/
> 
> Check out the blog comment on other authors work.  
> My personal blog: http://4bambiray.tumblr.com/, message me if you like.

Triggers: References to sexual activity.

PG-13 for now

 

Détaché-Non-legato technique, bowstrokes alternately up and down without the bow leaving the string. Articulation of individual notes, clearly separated from neighboring notes. The bow changes direction on each note.

Concerto-A composition for an orchestra and one or more solo instruments, typically in three movements.

Serge Prokofiev’s cello concerto in E minor OP.58 is one of many concerti that I adore as a musician. While I sit in the living room area of my flat, playing this beautiful piece of art, I become frustrated with the fact that I cannot seem to transition from the first movement to the next. I paused for a moment, penciling in my own little détaché on my copy of the score.  
I’ve been sitting in this chair for hours and I was starting to feel a bit fatigued, but I’m not getting up any time soon. I want to nail this audition for London Philharmonic Orchestra. This is one of the many reasons why I’ve come to London in the first place. This opportunity is a huge impact on my music career. I begin to play again only to be distracted by a faint noise that I realize is someone at the door.

I huff in frustration, picking my cello up by the neck placing it in its stand, before crossing the room towards the door. Upon my opening it, I come face to face with one of my neighbors, from across the hall.

Rosemarie is pretty with her golden hair, pale skin, and statuesque shape, unmarred after her three children. I’ve only lived in this building for about 4 months, but almost everyone was friendly. She’s such a dear friend at this point; I can’t imagine London without her in it.

“Hi Gabriel, I’m sorry to come over its just- I just put the kids down for a nap and I’ve got to get to the store.” She says, wiping her forehead.

I smiled at her cutting, her off. “Of course I’ll watch them while you’re out.” I tell her.

I know she had it hard, being a single mother with her children after her husband had left her, so I had no problem what so ever helping in any way I could. She was strong and resilient, on her own, but I felt like I owed her after all the kindness she had extended to me. 

I shut my ‘flat’ door, as these lovely English people like to say, crossing the hall into hers. Her flat is lovely and very homey.

“Please make yourself at home. If for any reason you need to contact me, you have my cell and my sisters as well.” She rambles. I was watching her speak very closely. As many times I’ve watch her kids, I always get this lecture from her. I laugh, reminding her that I would fine, that she could relax, and take all the time she needs. Once she leaves I could get my mind off my inability to execute the transition in the concerto I had been playing. I get up, wandering back to where the children’s rooms are just to check and make sure they are alright. They’re all very much sleep comfortably in their beds. The walk back to the living room is quick, and I plop myself down on the couch. I try to distract myself by watching a program about the Queen of England.

I’ve only been here thirty minutes before Rose came back in with her arms filled with groceries. “Thank you so much Gabriel, you’re a life saver.” She says digging in her handbag for money. I shake my head, refusing to allow her to do it. “Rose you don’t have to pay me.” I insist.

“Well bloody hell, I have to pay you somehow. You’re always helping me.” I laugh lightly at her exclamation. “Really you help me enough. I’m serious.” I tell her then she gives me a pout. “I could always get you and your famous blazing hot neighbor together. Talk about pay back.” She starts laughing at me when my eyes bug out.

That was something I was trying to avoid. Men, dating, love. I wrinkle my nose at her, using the most decent English accent I can to say “No thanks love.” She chuckles as I’m heading out the door. “Give your darlings a kiss for me.” I mention well heading back to my flat.

I know I won’t be able to focus on the music I need to memorize for my audition. I have been at it since before the sun came up and I haven’t had any food yet today. I really wanted this spot in this orchestra, and I already knew sacrifices would have to be made. I go back into my flat and head straight back into my bedroom to grab my purse. I’ve decided to head to a pub close by, so I change into something more suitable than my lounge wear. I pull on some black leggings, a white v-neck, brown boots, a crème and black cardigan. I dress this up with several gold and black colored bangles with simple love knot earrings. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, but I spray on a bit of a fragrance that had been a gift just to smell nice and boost my confidence, I dab on a bit of berry lip-gloss, and four brushes full of mascara. A wool scarf and beanie complete my look. I finally grab the pumpkin color satchel with black accent and head out the door.

I figure, as I walk down the hall towards the lift (I’ve come accustom to calling it that), I might as well have a few drinks for dinner, but thought better of it. I need to practice. In my short time living here I found out and quickly that one must always carry an umbrella. Once reaching the main floor I exit towards the busy streets that are ten times as bad as New York. Lucky for me it wasn’t raining, but it was very cloudy and chilly something I could deal with. Being from Chicago would make my transition to winter here a little less difficult, but I would eventually adjust. I walk down the sidewalk observing people of all sorts. Teenagers, old people, children, and couples. I felt almost numb at the sight.

I finally got down to the pub called Big Bens. It has a large sign in the shape of the iconic double Decker bus, a little contradiction that I enjoyed. I enter, surprised to see it so busy on a Tuesday at five in the evening and then I remember Rosemarie telling me how popular it is. I sit down in a booth, picking up a menu.

It wasn’t very long before a very pretty bored college student makes her to the booth. “Hello, welcome to Big Ben’s. What will ya be having today mum?” she stared at me exceptionally “I’ll have a strawberry lemonade and fish & chips please.” She scribbled away nodding her head. “Will that be all?” her accent heavy. I nodded my head and she goes off towards the bar then back to where I assume the kitchen is. I sit my purse on the inside of the booth and dig around for The Great Gatsby while I wait. No longer than two minutes pass before I had my drink in front of me. I’m so lost in the thick of it that I hadn’t heard the man sitting across from me speaking until he touched my hand making me flinch back. 

“Whoa there love, didn’t mean to give you a fright.” He chuckled in merriment. I simply stared at him raising a brow. “May I help you, sir?” I was a bit confused as to why he was here.

“Louis, dove. I was wondering if I could possible take you out sometime. You know a bit of dancing and romance.” I was laughing by the time he was done. “I’m sorry, but no thank you Louis.” He stared at me with a determination that I knew would be a problem if I didn’t handle it properly now.

“Look, I just got here a few months ago and I’m not looking.” Hopefully the guy would get a clue that I did not want to be hit on and he’d leave. He was smiling.

“You American girls, always playin coy. But I’ll be seeing ya.” He said leaving the booth. Just what I need, an unwanted suitor. My waitress walks by my table with a knowing look.

“You’d like that to go yes? I believe a refill is in order. She pauses. “Don’t worry Louis hits on every new woman in here, but he has a thing for American women. Where are you from, if you don’t mind be askin. You sound Spanish, but American” I smile at her.

“Soy de Colombia, but I moved to Chicago when I started high school. I answer, not trying to hide my accent.

She takes my drink from the table and offers me dessert which, I think sounds agreeable, so I order a double fudge chocolate cake. She takes my order and tells me it’ll be out front in a couple minutes. I pack up my things, putting my purse on my shoulder, and walk to the front of the establishment. My food is waiting when I get there; I pay and thank her before leaving.

It was the mid- evening and the sun is going down. The night life is starting to buzz. I cross the street, hurrying back toward my apartment building. I reach it within 20 minutes.

I take the lift, wanting to get upstairs quickly to review the three pieces for the wedding that my quartet is playing in tomorrow. In fact, the quartet is the reason I know about the vacancy in LPO. They had told me about the opening and I’ve been rehearsing ever since.

Crossing onto my floor, I rummaged through my bag for my keys. I wasn’t paying the closest attention to my surroundings, ignoring the couple in the hallway. I could vaguely hear them all over each other; the sliding of clothes, teeth and tongues mating. However, it wasn’t until the woman knocked my bag of food over that they took notice of me.

I bend down quickly, trying not to make eye contact, and lift a couple of my food containers off the floor.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry I didn’t see you!” the woman shrilled.

“It’s alright an honest mistake.” I answered back robotically. My double fudge chocolate cake is next to the man’s shoes. I glance up at them with a slight frown.The man was about six feet tall, lean and muscled, his hair a ginger color as well as his beard, and his eyes are the most piercing blue I have ever seen. His companion is blonde, slim, and dressed to kill.

So, Michael Fassbender has a thing for blondes.

“My apologies. This wasn’t the way I planned on meeting my new neighbor, especially after the loss of such a delicious looking piece of cake. I’m Michael.” This guy could seduce a girl right out her panties by just talking to her. His hand out for me to shake, and I nearly took it. 

Then I remember that just minutes ago it had been up that woman’s skirt, and I settle for an awkward half-salute. I gather my fallen food into my arms and stand, preparing to go back into my flat. A disgruntled sound from behind me makes me turn, and I sigh. Apparently I have to introduce myself to this guy.

“It’s quite alright. That’s life sending curve balls. I’m Gabriel.” I try to keep as still as I can, one hip popped to balance the food. My hand is in my bag, searching for my flat keys.

“Surely you’d allow me to replace what has been stolen so horrible from you.” He teased. Oh, what a charmer. The lady giggles, her blonde hair bouncing with each little exhale.

It’s too much for me. Finally, my hand finds my keys and I shove them into the lock, praying to God I can do this smoothly and quickly. There’s the tell-tale click from the lock and then my door swings open. I turn back to the couple.

“No it’s alright really Michael, nice to have met you both.” I say inclining my head towards the woman. I was in my apartment when he spoke again. “The pleasure is all mine Gabriel.” He says, low and rough. I shut the door, then slump against it. Michael is a very, very good-looking man and he should be, he’s famous and ‘The Next Big Thing’. Frankly I’m surprised I managed to keep my cool through the whole ordeal. I sigh, remembering how blue his eyes were. Then I sigh again, remembering how much more practice I have.

I gather my food again and walk to the kitchen, throwing the bags down on the counter. I throw my shoes and scarf off, relishing the feel of almost bare feet against the tile floor. Then, I stalk into the bedroom and sit down at my vanity. There’s a moment of digging and flustering, and then I find my hearing aids. A smile plays it’s way across my face. My hearing aids are like a safety blanket. As I fit them into my ears and turn them on, the world loses its shady fog.To me sound is the best sense.

I dance back into the kitchen, hearing every little footfall and scrape of socks against the floor. This is my favorite time of day. The fish and chips are good, albeit a little cold at this point. I don’t, mind though. That is, until I hear moaning and thumping coming from the next flat. I do my best to ignore Michael and his friends, but it’s not easy. They’re loud and rough.

There’s more moaning and grunting next door, making it impossible to try and do anything, excepted practice. I walk back to the sitting room area to caress my cello. I tune and play at a slightly loud volume, trying to block out the sounds of pleasure coming from next door. I’ve practice these piece so much, I know the music so well, that it just flows through my fingers. It’s easy, so easy, and well practiced, it seems too easy. I chastise myself because I know better; there is always room for improvements. Even the greatest musician still improved and even took lesson.

I give up and go to bed at that point. 

Outfit: http://i44.tinypic.com/2iqeauc.jpg


	2. Death's March

Triggers: A little bit of angst.

I would like to thank Ellen for being an amazing beta. Enjoy!

I was able to sleep through the night nearly peacefully. When morning rolled around, I awoke to my usual specially installed lights in my bedroom flashing, and the slight vibration of my bed. This morning, however, my usual wake up is accompanied by another light at my door, signaling that I have a visitor.

I growl, getting up walking rather harshly towards the door. The infamous Michael Fassbender is standing at my door. “Good morning Gabriel! I thought I could take you to breakfast to make up for my behavior.” I have to watch his mouth closely to catch what he says, and I frown when he’s finished.

“No, it’s fine. I have a wedding to go to.” I say simply trying (and hopefully succeeding) at keeping the dull tone out off my speech.

“Well that sounds lovely. Who’s the lucky lad, then? He looks amused. I go to close the door when he places his foot into the frame. I think to myself how long it would take for all the Fassy fans to descend upon me, if I decided to smash it on him.

“Would you invite me in?”

I sigh and open the door wide, allowing him inside. He’s looking intently around my flat, and I tell him to sit a moment. Having Michael Fassbender in my flat is one thing, having him in here without being dressed properly is another.

I retreat back into my closet and throw on a plain of shirt and jeans; I clean myself up. Finally, I put my hearing aids in and adjust them to a comfortable level, glad to hear all background noises I missed before. For a second, as I’m twisting my hair up into a bun, I listen as closely as I can to the simple sound of my fingers in my hair, the easy shift of clothes on skin.

It’s all over too quickly as a deep cough from the living area reminds me of my unintentional guest. Sighing, I make sure to cover up my hearing aids with a hat, and then return to Michael.

“Would you like something to drink? Tea maybe?” I ask while crossing from my hallway into the living area. He’s looming over my cello caressing the strings.

“Mr. Fassbender!”I shout, angry at him meddling with my cello. He jumps with a start, whirling around to face me. I walk over to my case, I grab it up, then whirl to glare at him.

“I would appreciate, if you didn’t touch my cello; it’s highly sensitive tuning wise. Don’t you know it’s rude to touch other people’s things without permission?” I seethe, carefully removing it and gently setting it in the case. Of all the nerve of this man, first keeping me up and then touching my instrument, I swear.

I stood with my back ridged, for the first time truly uncomfortable.

“Please excuse me.” He rumbles. I snort, but he continues, “I didn’t know you play, and it was sitting here so proudly, and it clicked. You’re rather good, you know. Very distracting.” A smile splits his face in two, and I’m looking at a handsome shark.

Is he hitting on me?

I furrow my brow and continue to gather everything I’ll need for the wedding, and he watches me. Can this man get any more difficult?

“What do you need?” I snap, with an air of annoyance.

“I need you to have dinner with me.” 

I scoff. “No thank you, I have some place to be, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve a train to catch.” I say, and then duck my head toward my watch.

“Please call me Michael. Well I hope your evening goes wonderfully. I’ll see you around Gabriel.”He says before seeing himself out.

I frown displeased with the situation; it seems the things you were trying to avoid seem to chase you. I let out a sigh, and then gather up my things, deciding to change here.

The dress is floor length made of black fabric I slipped it on zipping it as far up as I could, before pulling out the black suede heels with a gold platform at the front of the shoe. I pull the hat off and braid my hair into a fishtail; before tossing it over my shoulder.

I scramble down the stairs quickly taking a cab to the train station, before catching the train towards Sussex; near the Seven Sisters in the Kew garden. The train ride is long, but pleasant. This time of year is lousy with beautiful scenery, and it’s a welcome change from the city. In London, there’s constant noise, constant bothering, constant hustle and bustle. Out here, it’s different. Out here there’s a place and time to be silent, an easy flow of days.

The journey is over too quickly. There’s the screech of brakes as we near the station, then a voice over the speaker announcing my stop.

Robert is there waiting for me when I hit the platform, a huge grin on his face.

“Alright Gabriel?” He asks, and I chuckle.

“Yes, thank you and you?”

“As well as I can be. Shall we?” He holds his hands out and takes my cello from me, then holds out his arm for me to take. We walk like that, arm in arm over to the rental car.

It’s a short but telling drive. Robert has been married for 25 years, and he brags about it at every turn. He loves his wife dearly. I, on other hand, am more single than a one-dollar bill and have no intent on changing that.

Robert stays quiet during the drive, which is fine with me. I’m steeling my courage for this wedding. Ever since I left Richard I’ve been meticulously avoid weddings, wedding adverts, wedding songs, anything to do with weddings. I just don’t want to deal with them, but work required me to put my personal feelings aside.

We arrive on location with time to spare, and Robert leads me into a staging area for the quartet. There’s no real place to get some privacy, so changing back at the flat was an excellent idea.

Winston and Gerald are tuning when Robert and I walk in, but they raise their bows when they see us. We take our seats and join in the warm-ups. It’s not long before we’re all a little lost in the music.

As we end our warm-ups, Winston takes out his pocket watch and opens it carefully.

“It’s almost time chaps, shall we move out into the garden?”

There’s a quick murmur among the guys and then we’re outside, seated under a little canopy of white. The garden is beautiful, decorated with gold and white accents, flowers, and a bunch of little Greek style sculptures. It’s like a fairy tale.

It’s like what Richard and I would have had.

Robert notices how tense I am and reaches over to rub my back in a comforting way. Just for a moment, it’s enough. In that split second, I’m not worried. I’m not nearly nauseous and I’m not still pining after Richard.

Gerald coughs, and the moment is over. I position my cello properly and stretch my fingers; preparing for the procession and afterwards. The thought of a nice, stiff drink crosses my mind and I smile.

Winston begins to play, and one by one we join in. First up is a little instrumental ditty so that everyone can find their seats and then the wedding procession starts.

First, the pastor and the groom’s and bridal party and then the groom; they made their way to the front of the garden.

I was caught up in playing, but looked up for a split second to see his face. Grooms on their wedding day are the happiest men on the planet. They’ve got a partner they love, a whole, real person who accepts them for each and every one of their faults, someone bound to them by law for their whole life and we’re about to see them at their best.

We begin the famous Wedding March. I hit and hold a C, then steal a glance.

Richard, my Richard, is coming down the aisle. He walks confidently to stand beside the pastor and his best friend.

I feel my note go sharp clashing horribly with everyone else’s and my hands start to shake. Winston notices first and does to cover me with his violin, but the absence of the cello is noticeable to any ear.

Fuck that, I don’t care. Here he is; striding down the aisle, happy as can be. Richard, the Richard that had defiled our engagement just four months ago, is now walking into his happily ever after with another woman.

Shakily, I started to play again. Tears threatened in my eyes and I could feel bile crawling its way up my throat, but I couldn’t just leave.

And then he looks at me.

His grey eyes are shining out from on top of his cheekbones, his curly dirty blonde hair falling like a halo into his face. He looks positively giddy, like a kid in a candy store, but when he fixes his eyes on me, he falters. How his eyes widen, his mouth drops open.

Yeah, motherfucker, it’s me.

How I wish the ground would spring up and eat me alive. The rest of the wedding passes in a blur, and I alternate from shooting accusing daggers at Richard to swallowing thickly. I know the music well enough to be distracted, but I wish I wasn’t.

Nine years of my life is standing in front of me, putting a ring on someone else’s hand. Countless nights of cuddling and kissing is now telling someone else how much they love them. His familiar hands are holding hers, his lips ducking to meet hers.

Finally it is over. Finally. I scoot out of the venue as quickly as I could, placing my cello back into its case hastily and haul ass for the rental car.

Winston and Gerald are a ways behind me and I doubt Robert is even finished packing up yet. Awkwardly, I stood next to the car, shaking. All that pent up emotion is streaming out of me, finally, and it is unless to quell the tide. Hot tears start spilling down my cheeks and my breath goes ragged and before I knew it, I am on the far side of the car with my head buried in my hands.

The tears have started to die down and I’m simply heaving when the others catch up to me. They’re all looking at me with concern, but with a sniffle I take Winston’s offered handkerchief and wipe my nose. I beam up at them.

“Gabriel, let me take your cello. Are you alright?” Gerald asks, quietly. I nod handing over my case, swiping a bit of make-up left on my cheeks.

“Do you want to stay here? You should go.” He continues, opening a door putting my case in, then holding his hand out for me to take.

I shake my head and let out an uneasy breath.

“No, I should stay. I will stay. I’m fine.” I think he might hear the unsteadiness in my voice. He just nods, then gets in the car with Winston, and with a final wave, they are gone.

Robert takes my arm and leads me back into the venue, and I head straight for the bar, while he heads towards a friend in the crowd. Within a moment I’m downing a gin and tonic, and calling the bar tender over for a shot of Patrón.

I’m three in when the speeches start, four in when they’re done, and by my fifth I’m ready to leave the bar. It’s time to go the bathroom, now. On my way over Robert tell me he has to get home and I continue to stumble across the room. I shoot a glare at Richard, then collapse into the bathroom. It takes a while to relieve myself and it’s hard to wash hands that don’t go in the sink the first time.

A giggle escapes my mouth and I’m back on the floor, heading back to the bar. The music has become much more upbeat, younger and Justin Timberlake’s Let the Groove Get in; starts pumping through the speakers and my Colombian side takes over. I dance with a new swing to my hips, a new prowl. Forget Richard, if he can’t appreciate me, then I’ll appreciate myself.

I dance by myself in the middle of the dance floor in drunken abandon, letting the rhythm take over me.

“Whoa, there, little lamb. A deep voice rumbles from behind me, and two large hands snake around my waist.

Immediately I jump back and push the person, who, to my surprise; chuckles a big sharky chuckle.

“Michael!” I hiss, glancing around the room to see if we are being watched. Luckily we aren’t. “What are you doing here?”

“Currently, asking you to dance with me. Maybe take you home later, but for now; I’m going to make the groom the most jealous person in the room.” He growls into my ear, and then his hands are nearly wrapped around my hips as we move to the beat.

“So how do you know the groom?” Michael asks, dipping his scruffy face into my neck. I tense up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stutter, glaring at his neck.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” He whirls us around so I have full sight of Richard.

“He’s staring at us, and he’s been staring at you all night.” Michael mumbles, pulling me closer to him. I wrap my arms around his neck and secretly smile.

Serves him right.

“You can’t tell me he isn’t a lover because he’s been looking at you like a catholic priest after a teenage girl.” That comment caused me to blush profusely stumbling forward into him.

“That’s Richard.” I say, the drinks make me brave. “He’s my ex.”

Michael chuckles, deep and low in his throat.

“Well, how about if he sees you leaving the wedding with me? There’s no way he’ll miss it.”

“I don’t care, I’d like to leave.” I shrug.

“As my lady commands.” Michael says, and next thing I know my hand is in his and we’re out the door.

The cool air hits my face and I inhale, pulling in everything I was afraid of in there and letting it all out with a sigh. Michael still has his hand wrapped around mine, he is leading me over to a cab that’s already waiting for us.

He opens the door for me and we slip inside, then we’re on our way. Michael doesn't say anything, and I don’t either but that’s fine with me, at least for right now. I couldn't even think of saying something right now, anyways. It’s too much work, I’m drained.

He pays for the cab before I even realize we've reached the train station, and pays for the tickets before I can offer. I mumble a thank you, and then sit on a little bench on the platform. Michael sits next to me, still not talking.

I am in a bit of a comatose state not really taking in my surroundings; I am thankful for Michael being so persistent because I’d probably would end up somewhere in Waterloo with no phone because mine is dead.

It’s become considerably colder since the wedding, and I shiver a little when a breeze rolls through.

He notices and wraps me up in his jacket before I can protest, then slings his arm around me and hauls me over to his side.

The jacket is warm, heavy, smells like Michael. My stomach starts doing little flips and jumps in my chest. My heart starts pounding. I’ve not felt like this in so long, not known this kind intimacy in forever. It’s lovely but it frightens me. For this short ride I will allow myself to lean on him.

The train ride is a blur and before I know it we are both in the lift. I root through my purse before finding my keys. Placing them in the lock; while throwing a bit of weight into the door, we are inside. I flick on the switch bringing light into the place, and he enters behind me sly devil. “Thank you. I can take it from here.” I say quietly almost as if I am afraid to break this comfortable silence. He is observing my domain intently before turning to me gazing at me with a gentle expression. I don’t say anything. I plop down on my sofa wincing because I’d long forgotten the pain these heels were causing me and the next thing I know he is sitting next to me with my feet in his lap taking off the shoes; exposing my pink toes. He reaches toward my ankle to massage I assume but I just pull away.

 

“Really you've been kind. I can care of myself.” I say simply.

I wanted him to leave so I could cry like a child in my own privacy. His face just softens. I stand up turning towards the window and I know he is behind me, watching. This man was nothing like the man I met in the hallway the other day.

“I hope you sleep well Gabriel.” With that he walks out the door.

I walk to it locking up before flicking off the lights. I head back into my bedroom; stripping the dress from my back, placing it on its hanger, then take my hearing aids out placing them safely on the dresser. I go into the bathroom to shower. Once done, I take my hair out of its braid; not bothering to put on anything before getting in my bed. I lay face down wailing into my pillow until I fell asleep.

 

Outfit: http://www.polyvore.com/gabriel/set?id=84241632&lid=2865825


	3. Pity Party

No Triggers

G just a bit of angst and fluff

The lights went off at seven-thirty, like they do every day. Shakily, I get to my feet and get ready for the day, cursing the drinks last night. I slowly cross the room to pull on underwear, pajama pants, and a tank top. I walk in the bathroom not able to look at myself like this and brushed my teeth without looking. I run a brush through my hair before grabbing my robe. My feet carry me to the kitchen, and automatically I prepare a bowl of cereal for myself.

Michael made sure I made it home safely, then like a true gentleman, had left me to my own devices for the rest of the night. Not that I had anything to do, no except flopping on my bed and cry myself to sleep.

I spoon another mouthful of cereal into my mouth when the doorbell chimes faintly.  
“Gabriel? It’s me, Gerald, love. Buzz me up, eh?”

“Yeah, just a sec.” I holler back, going to let him in. He draws himself up the stairs laboriously, huffing and puffing after the second flight.

“Hello, love!” he greets me, and reaches out for a hug. It’s not a firm embrace, but it does the trick. He doesn’t comment on my red swollen eyes and my disheveled appearance too much. “Party too hard love and you’ll feel it in your old age like me.” He jokes. I smile at his attempt at humor.

“I’ve got here a cello with your name on it, Missy.”

“Perfect. Would you like to come in? I’ve got tea?”

“No, that’s fine, pet. I have the wife waiting. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”Gerald says, with a final hug; he’s gone.

I stand in my doorway with my cello for another moment, running my fingers along my jaw, absently before turning to head back inside.

“Gabriel!” a familiar voice shouts causing my throbbing head to ache, and then Michael is there, right beside me; still in pajamas. He’s running a hand through his hair and also hiding something behind his back.

“Michael.” I greet him with a wave, and then try to shut the door. There’s massive foot blocking my progress. I look up at him crossly.

“You don’t look happy, lamb.”

“I don’t need to tell you anything.”I insist, trying to pull the door shut again, but he remains in the way. With a final glare I let him in. I make my way into the kitchen and Michael’s voice drifts from the entrance.

“Hey, Gabriel, do you have a vase? I bought you some flowers.” He calls, this makes me roll my eyes and I reach under the sink for my blue vase. Did I mention I am grouchy when hung-over?

“Here.” I say, walking back towards the front door; handing it to him. He grins and pulls out a dozen fuchsia azaleas. He plops them into the vase, looking back at me expectantly.

I stare at them for a moment, taken aback by the sudden display of color in the room. Michael’s grinning broadly, shaking them a little bit in my face and I can’t help but grin back. They’re beautiful, so beautiful. I’m not sure if he knows the meaning behind flowers.

“Thank you.” I say, and take the vase to go fill it up.

“You know what azaleas mean, right, Gabi-girl?”

I can’t seem to make my head nod for him; I just stare in abject amazement at the bouquet in my hands.

“Azaleas are a symbol of fragility, a way to tell a woman to take care. I suppose you are feeling rather fragile right now Gabriel.” He says, quietly. His voice is aimed at the floor, and after a moment I hear the soft wheeze of the couch.

“I suppose I am.” I mutter, turning the vase in my hands. “Thank you, Michael. They’re lovely.”

“Who was he to you?” Michael asks and I can feel him gazing on me. His eyes blue and heady, like the ocean right before a storm. I don’t know how to read it.

“An ex.” I state dryly.

“Tell me, Gabriel.”

Lately my temper has been quite short. “Why do you care?”

He regards me patiently before replying “Someone has to.”

“He’s Richard Graham.” I start, and then I sigh heavily. “My Richard. Well, I suppose not mine anymore. Not mine for the last four months.”Another, smaller sigh, “We were engaged. We were in love. Well, I was in love. I think he liked having someone to boss about.”

It is weird not hearing myself speak, but I didn’t tell people about my hearing impairment because people started treating me like I was stupid. I could speak three languages fluently, sign language included. I had a degree in music to teach, if I ever desired to do so.

My mind flies to that moment in time, that sudden change in Richard.

“He’s a cheater.” I whisper, and plop down on my love seat, the vase loosely between my knees. “He cheated with that lady last night. He married her.”

This is hard, vulnerability is hard and that’s not something I ever enjoyed. I hear Michael stand faintly, and then his big hands take the vase from me. My shoulders remain stooped in defeat. I hated crying, it makes me feel weak, but I let a sob escape my tightening throat.

Michael sits down next to me, and the heavy weight of his hand rests on my thigh.

“He never deserved you.” He says, that deep Irish rumble matches the numb pain behind my eyes.

A startled laugh escapes my throat and I see Michael’s eyebrows furrow. “You have no idea.” I say while pushing hair over my ear.

I don’t feel the weight of my hearing aids in my ear. Of course I don’t it’s barely eight fifteen in the morning, I didn’t have the chance to put them in.

“I think I do.” He says, taking my hand in his. It’s warm, solid, and more than a little rough. His fingers are long enough to completely wrap around my hand and then some. The pressure on my hand tightens for a split moment and I slowly drag my gaze to meet his.

He’s beautiful. Even with the slight wrinkles, signs of aging, and the faint smell of cigarettes around him, He is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.

And I think he’s looking at me in the same matter.

There’s a part of me that wants to reach out and touch him, feel the soft shift of muscle under sinew and how rough his beard is. I want to know what his cheek would feel like under my thumb.

Maybe what his lips would look like swollen from a kiss.

I snap back to reality and yank my hand away from his, holding it like it had been scalded and glaring at Michael. I shouldn’t be thinking these thoughts, look where it got me!

“No, you haven’t an idea, Michael.” I straighten and try to appear unaffected. “Besides, weren’t you shagging that lovely blonde the other day?” My horrible British imitation draws out of me. I smirk.

“She’s too clingy for me. Too open. I think I’ve developed a taste for emotionally unavailable, fiery women who I can’t read. He says while smirking at me.

Blood rushes to my face and I squirm indignantly.

“You look tired. Take a nap, I’ll look after you today.” He suggests and then he stands up. I begin to protest but it dissipates.

I don’t know why but I sank down into the love seat laying my head on the pillows, curling up, and went to sleep.

I awake to the strong smell of someone cooking; making me bolt upright, shifting the blanket that is draped over me. Apparently, I’ve been out for a while, because the sun is shining dully against my window, and from what I can see, Michael’s changed. “Afternoon, Gabriel.” He rumbles and I see him poke his head out from the kitchen. It’s a faint sound though and I’m silently thankful I can read his lips. “Afternoon, Michael.” I quip before bolting to my room. Quickly I push my hearing aids into my ear canal and let out a relieved sigh. Noises flood my brain and I feel them in my soul. I love hearing.

For a moment, I sit in the chair next to my vanity just listening. Then I remember Michael in the kitchen; walking back out to the dining room. I plop down in a chair and he brings whatever he cooked to me. It’s a simple pasta dish, a little overcooked and slightly oily, but I thank him all the same. Like a proud lion, he’s beaming down at me.

“Made it myself.” He shakes his head, like he’s cursing himself for saying it.

I throw him a smile, and then I dig into the dish because I am famished. It’s not terrible the best, but I’m not going to complain.

Michael sits down in a chair opposite me, observing.

“So, how is it?”

‘Good. I like spaghetti.’ I sign, sucking a noodle into my mouth. Suddenly a cold bolt runs through me. I signed it!

Michael shoots me a quizzical look and I cough very hard, smacking against my chest. It makes my whole body shake and I feel one of my aids pop out of place.

My hands flies up to cover it, but not before he see.

There’s a moment of silent horror, where all I can hear is the hard squeezing of my heart and the thrum of adrenaline through my veins because now Michael knows.

Now I’m not the fiery girl- next- door, I’m the pitiful, deaf woman. Now I’m not as good, not sparkly and exciting and new. Now I’m broken and can’t be mended.

“Are those…?” he asks, and I drop my gaze down into my food.

"Thank you for lunch. You should go.” I whisper. I felt tears welling up, but I refused to cry in front of him.

“You’re deaf Gabriel.” he says, louder than is necessary, I snap.

“I hate that word, Michael. It’s so harsh; I’d prefer hearing impaired, hell even hard of hearing, but not that word.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I won’t use it again.” He scratches at his beard.

“How long?”

I shove another forkful of pasta into my mouth and grimace. The noodles on my plate are probably cooking all over again from the hateful glare, but I can’t contain how frustrating this is. I’ve been here before a few times, I’ve been at the apex of this fork in the road and been forced down the wrong path.

“Forever. I got a pair when I was nine, but back in Colombia; the small town I’m from, it isn’t the best place to try and get medical attention. We barely scraped by as it was. So when they tried to save for the best pair, it didn’t work out so well. I’d rather be fed than hear.” I squirm uncomfortably. 

Michael absorbs this for a moment, and then opens his mouth to speak. “I hate to kick you out, Michael, but you can’t be seen with someone like me. Thank you for lunch.” I stand, and turn for the kitchen.

Michael blocks my way. I groan in frustration.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know full well what it means.”

“No, I don’t. Please sit down.”

That statement makes me jut my chin up stubbornly.

“Yes, you do, and I’d appreciate if you move out of my way.” I talk over him.

“Will you just talk to me?” he asks, and a stray hand pushes its way through his hair. He’s getting exasperated.

“What’s the point?!” I holler.

“It doesn’t matter to me Gabriel.” he shouts back and now it’s just a screaming match.

I’ve heard this before, that assurance that my handicap is no issue. I heard it from Richard, and hearing it now from Michael makes my blood boil.

Michael grabs my arms with barely restrained frustration and shouts “ Will you just listen to me?”

His face is inches from mine. I can feel his hot breath on my cheeks and his eyes burn into me.

I want to kiss him.

“Yes.” I gasp, and it is more than me listening. It’s me admitting to myself that I’m attracted to him and it’s crazy to think that, I know because he can’t ever be with me, but God do I want him.

“Good.” The fight is gone from his voice and he releases me, gently taking the plate away from me.

“Go sit over there. I’d like to know everything and start from the beginning, please.” Michael orders, and then he starts washing my dish against my protest.

We talk and I tell him about Colombia, about the hot nights and muggy days. I tell him about the neighborhood, not the nicest part of town, but not the slums, either. I’m vague about my mother and father, but I do tell him how he always smells of hot chilies because he washes his hair with them and how my mother is the warmest person anyone could meet.

I tell him about hearing for the first time and learning how to play the cello. It’s a long story starting in heartbreak and ending the same, but I tell it anyway.

It starts with me, a little silent girl all alone or at least I felt like it. Clinging to my home, to my parents because nobody wanted to befriend the deaf girl.

“I started before I could hear, around six. I had a neighbor who was a cellist and he noticed I never played with the other kids, so he offered my parents to teach me free of charge. At first I hated it because I couldn’t hear the notes he produce, I was frustrated; I realized I would have to learn by touch; each note felt different and the pitch felt different. After that I excelled quickly.” I pause for a moment remembering how I felt.

“I couldn’t hear my sound I guess my parents could tell that I was unhappy because I already didn’t have friends and now that I had something that I loved, I couldn’t really relish in it. They still recorded me, so one day I may hear what I had started out like.”

Michael and I were facing each other at a respectable distant apart. “It had to be exciting to know you were good at something.” He appears earnest.

I nod my head in agreement showing him the eternal calluses on my fingers and I demonstrate signs we made up to communicate with each other

“When I was nine my instructor Juan Moreno took me to America, so that we could play in New York with the Philharmonic Orchestra I didn’t realize he was a world renown cellist until we were in the states. He helped my parent pay for my first pair of hearing aids.” I swallow down the stab of pain I feel thinking about him.

“My next lesson was one that had me amazed; I always knew he was a phenomenal cellist and I cried when I heard him play for the first time. He asked me to play one of his favorite concerti and I was speechless at the rich sound I had produced.

I don’t tell him anymore, because I don’t know how to talk about Juan’s death. The words are still foreign and rough to me. It’s been years, but the diagnosis is wrong.

” So where is Juan Moreno now?” Michael asks, a huge grin plastered across his face

“He died after that lesson; he had prostate cancer in it’s finally stages. I was heart-broken because he was my teacher but he was a dear friend to me my only friend at the time. I cried for months.”

“I’m so sorry Gabriel . What did you do?”

I realized then what he was doing; he was trying to get my back ground but I felt alright telling him much about me.

“At first I wanted to stop playing because I felt that I would never be skilled enough again to play with professionals and I had played with adults at the age of nine, mind you . I had promised I’d continue playing and I kept my word.”

The media put pressure on me I went from being an unknown prodigy to everybody who’s anybody in the musical world knowing who I was.

It had frightened me. Juan had been shielding me from it because people want to know about me the deaf prodigy; I was dubbed in the papers.

He taught me everything I needed to know and he set me up for success. 

Being his last student is a lot of pressure, I feel as if I must continue his legacy. His legacy has followed me ever since and I feel it’s my responsibility to make him proud.

I had been quiet for quite some time before I speak again.

“I just want him to be proud of me.”

Michael comes closer to where I sit on the sofa and wraps his arms around me. I feel him kiss the top of my head and I sigh. The strange thing is that he feels safe to me.

I don’t know what it is about this man that made me feel both on edge and safe all at once.

“You’ve made him proud, Gabriel. You’ve made him proud.”


	4. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

I avoid Michael.

If avoidance was an Olympic sport I’d have a gold medal. It’s not easy there are times when he’s insistently pounding on the door for hours at time, but I do it anyways.

So for about a week he would knock, sometimes shouting like an angry lover just to rile me up enough to make me open the door.

This happens when I get too close to people, I shut down. It’s like a survival instinct; my need to feel protected and safe overwhelms anything someone else could offer. My solitude is comforting, real, and it’s what I crave.

Not even Michael can change that.

So I avoid him.

There’s plenty of things to fill my schedule, mostly rehearsals and musical gigs but I do go out as well.

My quartet has decided that we should move on to more masterful pieces, things that are more complex and demanding. We do love a challenge.

We play at couple of high society parties, a pub one night, and a particularly fantastic little wedding.

It’s immediately after that wedding that Michael finally catches me.

 

It’s been close to two months and I have become comfortable with the fact that his work has carried him away. I become far too comfortable because on this particular Wednesday in November, as I walk up the stairs out of the brutal rain I hear the unmistakable voice of the very person I hadn't wish to see.

My hair is sticking to my head. I've had a couple drinks, but nothing too severe.

The stairs clang and groan underneath my feet, and I take them at a monstrous pace. This black and pink floor length dress is starting to chafe against my skin and these pink booties are killing my feet. I’m so ready to go home.

My coat is drenched hanging off of me. This constant rain is horrible.

I spin around the corner and head down the hall to my flat, when I see him. Michael is slumped against his door; drink in hand; with his chin on his chest. He looks up at the sound of my footfalls with unfocused blues.

“Gabi-girl!” he says, and then he giggles. “Hello!” The last drawn ‘o’ is drawn out and pitchy.

“Hello, Michael.” I sigh, heading towards my door.

“Hey, wait!” He slurs as I pass him and he lurches forward to grab my coat. “Wait hold on. I wanna talk with you.”

“Is that so.” I grouch prying my coat away from him.

“Of course, Gabi-girl.” He chuckles to himself. Then, to my absolute astonishment and horror, he picks himself up.

I’m 5’7 slim with medium breast, brown eyes, brown hair, and subtle curves. In my mind I could spot him if I had to. Because he is drunk off his ass, I don’t know how he is so coherent.

“Do you have an appointment right now?”

I roll my eyes at him suppressing my urge to laugh. Somehow I dodging holding him up.  
“No, I don’t, but it’s almost midnight. Go home, Michael.” 

“I can’t!” he whines, and gives me his best puppy-dog eyes. “I've gone and lost my keys.”

God, damn it.

“Then you’ll stay outside. Call a girlfriend.” I sass and then turn to open my door.

“No, wait please. Come over mine for a drink.” He slurs and I just stare at him.

“No, Michael I think you've had enough. Goodnight.”

“Gabriel.” He snaps, suddenly much more sober than I thought he was. His hands fly to my hips and grabs me, pulling me towards him.

“Come to mine for a drink.” I found it terrifyingly arousing. I have to help him, it the less I can do.

If looks could kill Michael Fassbender would have died right there.

I sigh taking my cello off my back, so that I could balance his weight better.

Trying to unlock the door with Michael leaning on me is a challenge, but I am able to do it. We stumble inside and Michael walks forward in the dark, which results in him hitting something and swearing. I fumble around carefully in the dark for a switch and when I found it; I sprint forward to save Michael from falling flat on his face. I simply delay the fall, but take the force of the fall. I sat up looking around his living room. It wasn't very big; in fact it is the same layout as my own flat.

The walls are a light blue, the frame around his windows and kitchen door way are white. He has three white bookshelves, one mount above the window, two beside it filled with books and probably scripts.

His dining room table sat in front of a window, where a very wicked light fixture with a zigzag cable hung above the table. The love seat is a neutral color and it sat against the farthest wall to the right, in front of it was a dark wood table exactly like the dining room table.

Michael’s TV sat on a white entertainment center that is mounted into the wall. An average sized flat screen sat upon it. On the wall behind it are pictures. One large that appeared to be of his family and four smaller on arrange in two rows.

I realized that we are sitting on a grey rug, so I remove my shoes, standing up to grab my cello out the hall and I shut the door. I turn back to see him watching me.

“You should go to bed.” I say staying by the door.

Despite myself I laugh at him. “Why did you drink so much?” I cross the room towards him, helping him stand.

“My mates wanted to go out to a pub, and we got carried away.” I stood there trying to support his weight a very difficult task.

We stagger down the hall until we get to his bed room. “It looks like a dog’s dinner in here.” It looked like a war happened in here.

The walls are a sort of grey color that reminded me of a pebble. His dresser sat in front of a wardrobe in the same colors dark wood body and a clear almost transparent face. 

The bed is a mess but I could see the navy blue and white bed sheets, comforter, and pillows scattered around the floor. I notice as I get closer to the bed that there are lights mounts close to the bed probably for reading. To the right of the bed is the bathroom, after I deposited Michael there I walk out of his bedroom.

I plan to leave but I have a terrible conscious and I kept imagining Michael falling while he showered and I wouldn't be here to help, he could be injury or die. Then my imagination starts getting away from me because my finger prints are all over the place, the cops would question me, and his legion of fans would want to kill me because I left their precious Fassy alone.

I groan before plopped down on the love seat before laying back. I am such a sucker. I frown to myself; I am too good of a person for my own good.

I pull the coat off myself; seeing a blanket slung over the back of the seat, I pull it over myself curling up with my back to the TV. I drifted off to sleep all the same.


	5. Breakfast for Two

I wake up stretching, my limbs protested loudly. I open my eyes to be greeted by an unfamiliar room; I smell eggs and toast wafting from the kitchen. I’m in Michael Fassbender’s flat, while Michael Fassbender cooks breakfast wearing nothing but boxers.

“Hi.” I say rigidly. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Morning Gabi- girl. Why’d you sleep out here last night? There was plenty of room in the bed, you know. Plenty.”

“Uh, yeah. No thank you.” I reply, leaning on the kitchen door frame.

He grins up at me, cheekily. Then, he sweeps breakfast off the stove and slaps it down on plates sitting on his island, beckoning me with a single crooked finger.

As if he could read my mind he says, “Why don’t you stay for breakfast?” 

I look at him and all his perfection, not realized I am reaching for the mop of dark curls on my head to fix them.  
“I don’t –think that I should.” 

“I would really enjoy your company. Please.”

We don’t talk much over breakfast, I’m tired and more than a little sore, and he’s hung over. It’s surprisingly delicious, especially for a single actor that travels. He blames it on the saffron.

He doesn't let me help him clean, instead insisting that I go change and come right back to his flat. I’d rather not, but there are worse ways to spend a day than with Michael.

I have to change and bathe. I slip on my shoes not bothering to lace them, grab my cello and scramble next door. I toss my keys in the bowl. I started undressing bumping into the wall as I go. I get back into my bedroom in one piece quickly hopping into the shower. I get out taming my hair into a high bun. I dress in a pair of jeans, a pink short sleeve shirt, a thick white cardigan, my favorite black and white polka dot socks, and a pair black floral print Doc Martens.

As soon as I locked my door Rosemarie comes out into the hallway; on her way to work by the looks of her.

“Well blow me down, where the hell you have been hiding? I know you've been avoiding the man, but does that mean you have to avoid me too?”

She and I have spoken several times, but I never ventured into the hall because of the high possible of running into my neighbor. 

“Rose would you relax. I have-.” I was cut off by the sound of his door opening.

I turn my head to see him gazing at us. “Oh there you are, I thought you ran off on me. Hello Rosemarie.” 

Cheeky devil. Rose stammered a hello before her eyes bugged out at me. 

“Are you still coming?” he asked. 

“Yes, I’ll be there in a moment.” I answer hearing him shut the door.

“You wanton you. When were you going to tell me you were shag him eh?” I smacked my hand on my forehead.

“I’m not shagging him Rose for Christ sake! We've just had breakfast.” 

She fixes me with a confused look. “It’s a long story but -.” She is smirking so hard that her lips have gone severely thin. 

“I don’t care what you’re doing with him as long as you have fun.” I felt my face burn in embarrassment.

“Rose! I’m not going to get frisky with him, are you crazy?” she is laughing in merriment as she told me she had to get to work. 

I turn around knocking on Michael’s door and he answers relaxed in his grey Iron Maiden shirt, comfortable cotton lounge pants and his bare feet.

“Everything alright with Rose?” concern colors his tone.

“Oh yes everything is fine.” I rubbed the back of my neck praying to god he hadn't heard any of that but especially the last part.

Before I know it, Michael and I are sitting side-by-side on his love seat. He’s picked out a book for me to read out loud, and I am, even though it makes me a little uncomfortable.

I glance over at him with his eyes shut and his head leaned back against the back of the love seat. His jaw line and adam’s apple stand out against his red beard. He just looks so frighteningly at peace.

I keep reading out loud for a while, then I stop. He’s taking a bit of a nap. 

“Why’d you stop?” he mumbles a few minutes.

“You’re falling asleep and I have some things to do at mine, now that I think about it.” I say, smiling gently at him.

Michael’s awake now, and those blue eyes are burning into mine.

“Are you sure you have to leave?” he asks, quietly as he dares.

I nod , setting the book down on the coffee table. It really is time to go. If I stay here any longer I might do something I’ll regret. 

“Okay.” He whispers, and then stands. He holds his hand out for me to take, pulling me up next to him.

He’s radiating heat. It’s so intoxicating.

When we’re standing this close, I can’t really remember why I have issues with Michael. I can’t remember why he’s such a red flag for me.

“Your hair is so lovely. I hate that you wear it up all the time.” He comments as he rakes his eye over my face. 

I became distracted by the rope of hair tumbling down onto my shoulder. He has pulled my hair from its tie.

I don’t think he does either, because he brushes my hair behind my ears, leans in and whispers in my ear.  
“Back to the isolation, huh?”

Fire burns through my veins. I’m at once angry and defensive, and I open my mouth for a swift retort. Michael kisses me.

I’m startled by the feeling of his lips on mine. He’s warm and solid. His lips are skilled; I can taste mint and smoke. Another rush runs through me, this one like ice, and I tentatively snake my hands into his hair.

He grunts appreciatively, deepening our kiss. I feel a hand on my ass, gripping and pulling me closer, until I can barely breathe against him. My fingers scratch at the rough hair on his cheek, and then his lips are on my neck.

He trails fire down my throat, nipping and kissing and licking in quick succession, until I am nearly undone. His hand rises from my rear and trails up underneath my shirt, spreading warmth through my back. I gasp into his ear, pushing myself closer.

Then he breaks the kiss and steps back.  
I shiver at the sudden cold that smacks my front, and I see him shiver too. His lips are swollen and his hair is sticking out on end, his eyes are bright with heat.

“Gabi-girl, you should leave now.” He says, breathing heavily.

I nod, haphazardly gather my things, and rush out the door.


End file.
